After watching an episode of "Who Do You Think You Are?" a TV show that documents celebrities' searches for their family roots, I enthusiastically joined Ancestry.com. Since I'm not an Academy-Award winning actress, my only option was hands-on investigation (as opposed to having an expert do it for me), which turned into hours upon days spent hunched over my laptop, dry-eyed and jacked up on coffee, slowly comprehending all the mind-numbing background labor that television hadn't revealed.

During this online hunt for my family tree I'd gape at the screen and wait for green leaves to sprout signaling new revelations of long-departed relatives; in truth, of course, these were complete and total strangers, but because these unknown souls were blood relations, it started to get interesting. My familial branches grew longer and longer, and beneath the Paris surname sprouted several individuals from a place I'd never heard of, Linlithgow, a tiny town (research revealed) located 20 miles west of Edinburgh. (At least that would explain my penchant for plaid and bitter ale.)

Over the following weeks I researched Scotland and its history. One book detailed the magnitude of the country's diaspora and described a man who lived in New York, but whose heritage began in Scotland. For years he'd accumulated Scottish memorabilia rivaling a museum's collection. (I could just picture this guy decked out in full kilt regalia wielding an axe.)
Asked when he planned to visit the Homeland, the man replied that he would never make the journey for fear of being "too disappointed."

Agusti Curto Calbet, the Night Manager at The Ritz-Carlton, Powerscourt, in County Wicklow, Ireland, arrived to work for his midnight shift on a cold February evening. Ordinarily, during his scheduled time at the five-star luxury hotel, a guest might phone in for a wake-up reminder, the arrangement of an early morning taxi, or perhaps a bottle of champagne for a romantic interlude. But, as the young Spaniard was about to discover, this fated night was about to become anything but ordinary.

A woman staying in one of the Mountain View Suites with her husband rang the Reception desk after 2:00 a.m. in a most agitated state.

"I hate to bother you at this late hour, but a very valuable item of mine has disappeared from my room!"

"I'm so sorry to hear that Madame," he replied. "What does it look like?"

Whatever it is, he thought, it surely must be priceless.

"It's a small, white Teddy Bear," she explained in between sobs. "One of its button-eyes is slightly broken and...and...it's irreplaceable! I've carried it with me for over 35 years!"

As her voice faded into low sniffles, the 30-year-old Night Manager kept the lady calm and assured her all would be well.

"Where did you see it last?" he asked.

"It was on the bed. Maybe it went astray when the room was cleaned today?"

Agusti told her that the stuffed animal couldn't have gone far and that every effort would be made to retrieve it.

"You'll need to catch the bus to Stromness," says the lady at the tourist information office. She's the cheery sort you'd expect to find working here -- that rare employee who genuinely seems to love her job.

I arrived in Kirkwall, the largest town in the Orkney Islands, less than an hour ago. I've come to ask the best mode of transportation to the Orkney Folk Festival, three nights of continuous musical acts held over the long May weekend.

She removes a pamphlet and turns it around on the counter. She circles the schedule time leaving tomorrow night at 5:15 p.m. Her name tag simply states Kathleen.

"How long does it take to get there?" I ask.

"About a half an hour with stops," she says. "Are you going to the festival?"

"Yes!" I say.

"How are you getting back? The buses stop running at ten."

"Oh?" I question. "Could I take a taxi?"

I can see by the look on her face this is not an option. I keep forgetting Kirkwall has about 7,100 residents and where I'm headed tomorrow, less than a third of that number.

"You know, I think my brother is going there. He could give you a lift back."

Before I can say no, she's picked up the phone. After a few moments she says it's all set and he'll meet me in the foyer after the concert. His name is Alistair. He'll be with his significant other, Marie.

Ordinarily this goes against everything I learned as a kid: Do not accept rides from strangers. But surely this adorable woman – Kathleen – would not be arranging dangerous pick-ups from the Kirkwall Tourism Office. That would be bad for business. No, I'll take the risk. The scariest thing I've seen so far is a shocking lack of sunshine.

"Thank you! That's so kind of you," I say. "I'll meet him after the concert then."

Everyone had questioned my decision to visit this place. Nobody had ever heard of it – including me. When I'd studied the map of Scotland, something had drawn me to this archipelago of 70 islands located below the Shetland Islands. My mother had said I might as well go to the North Pole.

"Look!" Mom had screamed. "It's practically off the page it's so high up!"

Before leaving Edinburgh this morning, I'd asked the bellman if he'd ever been to the Orkney Islands. He hadn't, and he was Scottish. True, Edinburgh has a lot to offer: the Royal Mile, the ghost tours, the castle. All the attractions most travelers consider Places of Interest.

"Why are you going there?" he'd asked as I was leaving.

"I'm going to the Orkney Folk Festival. This marks its 27th year," I'd told him. "For three full days and nights, musicians from all over the world come and play."

He'd offered a nod and quizzical smile in return.